Rep John Lewis (D)
I was somewhat bemused but not unsurprised to see that Vic chose to write about the passing of John Lewis in “Information Operations” which is a great piece. I was thinking about doing the same, but for different, more personal reasons. It all sort of centers on Atlanta, doesn’t it, and in particular the airport. We used to have a saying that when you died in the South and were on your way to Heaven, you had to change planes in Atlanta.
My stepfather Henry was a great man in his time – lawyer, Mississippi Circuit Court Judge, Campaign Manager and later Chief of Staff for Mississippi Governor James P. Coleman (D), and then President of what would become the largest title insurance company in the US. He was the son of a Baptist Minister and Sunday School teacher from Shebudah, Mississippi, and attended the Cumberland School of Law in Tennessee right after graduation from high school. It is sort of weird that my wife and kids never knew him as he passed so many years ago – it’s like we are talking about a ghost. In his time, he was personal friends with every politician in Mississippi and Alabama, and even introduced us to George Wallace one day at the capitol in Montgomery – I worshipped the ground he walked and the water that he navigated upon. But as a child of the old South he grew up as a racist and white supremacist, until one Friday afternoon in the Atlanta Airport, he changed. It took one special man to do that, and it is very much the story of a road not taken. You might even say that it was an experience for him that was unforgettable.
Nat “King” Cole
One sultry and rainy Friday afternoon in the old Fulton County Atlanta Airport in the summer of 1960, he was experiencing the pleasure of a Southern Airlines flight delay for thunderstorms, waiting for his connecting flight to Jackson. The airport was crowded as it always has and ever been, and hot – but there was an open seat next to him. An older, courtly black man approached him:
“Is that seat taken?”
By racist reflex, my stepfather, not wishing to sit next to a black man, lied:
“Yes. It is.”
The black man nodded courteously, and then went elsewhere seeking a place to sit and rest from the oppressive heat. It was then that my stepfather emerged from his lifetime of racist-induced stupor, realizing that it was Nat King Cole and that he had stupidly passed up his chance to sit next to and converse with a living legend. He said that it was a moment and missed opportunity that he would never get over and regretted for the rest of his life.
After that, there was nothing that he could not do to help out poor black people and families. He adopted several and they were like family in a way – the dads worked for us around the house and moms sewed our clothes and kept house, they got all of our hand-me-downs, and were invited to all of the fish fries out on the pier on Mobile Bay, treated as equals as part of the family along with the other “rich” white people. He and my mother bought all their kid’s Christmas presents every year up until he died in 1984. You’ve got to remember that this was the late-60s and 70s when I was growing up, and that was the way things were back then. One of my earliest memories of 1960 after watching the Nixon-Kennedy debates on B&W TV was seeing the segregated restrooms at the local Sinclair Dino gas station in Madison, MS. If you ever saw the movie “The Help” then you will understand where I come from – I was raised back in the Mississippi of the 1960s by black nannies, some who lived with us, and who were as strict about teaching us our manners as Catholic nuns. Punishment for transgression was ruthless and quickly administered, and I’m the better for it. And I can tell the difference as I’ve been trying to teach my kids courtesy and good manners but not doing so well now that corporeal punishment is a criminal offense, even with your own children.
Vintage Restroom Sign from the days of Segregation
Fast forward to 2006, and I’m sitting at my departure gate at Reagan National on an MD-80, enduring a thunderstorm-delayed Delta flight to Atlanta to change planes for Key West and home. I had had time to change into island chic – shorts, flip flops, ball cap and Sloppy Joe’s T-shirt, so I was sort of incognito except for the military haircut. I had a choice aisle seat, no one in the middle, an interesting book to read, cocktails to look forward to, and the best thing was I was getting the fuck out of DC and heading back to the Keys, so life was good. Then, they let more people on the plane, to include a bunch of House reps from the South, who were going home for the weekend. A somewhat portly black man asked if he could sit next to me – I spotted the US Flag badge of a Congressman on his left suit lapel and said:
“Absolutely sir, please take the seat.”
I was sort of startled and annoyed about sharing the cramped space, so I didn’t really realize who it was at first – John Lewis. I flicked through my memory banks and realized that I had the chance to not make the same mistake that my stepfather had made so many years before., and I had about two hours to talk with a living legend.
“So, Congressman, what was Martin Luther King really like?”
I remain your faithful servant.
Copyright 2020 Point Loma
http://www.vicsocotra.com
Point Loma: Hot ‘Lanta
Rep John Lewis (D)
I was somewhat bemused but not unsurprised to see that Vic chose to write about the passing of John Lewis in “Information Operations” which is a great piece. I was thinking about doing the same, but for different, more personal reasons. It all sort of centers on Atlanta, doesn’t it, and in particular the airport. We used to have a saying that when you died in the South and were on your way to Heaven, you had to change planes in Atlanta.
My stepfather Henry was a great man in his time – lawyer, Mississippi Circuit Court Judge, Campaign Manager and later Chief of Staff for Mississippi Governor James P. Coleman (D), and then President of what would become the largest title insurance company in the US. He was the son of a Baptist Minister and Sunday School teacher from Shebudah, Mississippi, and attended the Cumberland School of Law in Tennessee right after graduation from high school. It is sort of weird that my wife and kids never knew him as he passed so many years ago – it’s like we are talking about a ghost. In his time, he was personal friends with every politician in Mississippi and Alabama, and even introduced us to George Wallace one day at the capitol in Montgomery – I worshipped the ground he walked and the water that he navigated upon. But as a child of the old South he grew up as a racist and white supremacist, until one Friday afternoon in the Atlanta Airport, he changed. It took one special man to do that, and it is very much the story of a road not taken. You might even say that it was an experience for him that was unforgettable.
Nat “King” Cole
One sultry and rainy Friday afternoon in the old Fulton County Atlanta Airport in the summer of 1960, he was experiencing the pleasure of a Southern Airlines flight delay for thunderstorms, waiting for his connecting flight to Jackson. The airport was crowded as it always has and ever been, and hot – but there was an open seat next to him. An older, courtly black man approached him:
“Is that seat taken?”
By racist reflex, my stepfather, not wishing to sit next to a black man, lied:
“Yes. It is.”
The black man nodded courteously, and then went elsewhere seeking a place to sit and rest from the oppressive heat. It was then that my stepfather emerged from his lifetime of racist-induced stupor, realizing that it was Nat King Cole and that he had stupidly passed up his chance to sit next to and converse with a living legend. He said that it was a moment and missed opportunity that he would never get over and regretted for the rest of his life.
After that, there was nothing that he could not do to help out poor black people and families. He adopted several and they were like family in a way – the dads worked for us around the house and moms sewed our clothes and kept house, they got all of our hand-me-downs, and were invited to all of the fish fries out on the pier on Mobile Bay, treated as equals as part of the family along with the other “rich” white people. He and my mother bought all their kid’s Christmas presents every year up until he died in 1984. You’ve got to remember that this was the late-60s and 70s when I was growing up, and that was the way things were back then. One of my earliest memories of 1960 after watching the Nixon-Kennedy debates on B&W TV was seeing the segregated restrooms at the local Sinclair Dino gas station in Madison, MS. If you ever saw the movie “The Help” then you will understand where I come from – I was raised back in the Mississippi of the 1960s by black nannies, some who lived with us, and who were as strict about teaching us our manners as Catholic nuns. Punishment for transgression was ruthless and quickly administered, and I’m the better for it. And I can tell the difference as I’ve been trying to teach my kids courtesy and good manners but not doing so well now that corporeal punishment is a criminal offense, even with your own children.
Vintage Restroom Sign from the days of Segregation
Fast forward to 2006, and I’m sitting at my departure gate at Reagan National on an MD-80, enduring a thunderstorm-delayed Delta flight to Atlanta to change planes for Key West and home. I had had time to change into island chic – shorts, flip flops, ball cap and Sloppy Joe’s T-shirt, so I was sort of incognito except for the military haircut. I had a choice aisle seat, no one in the middle, an interesting book to read, cocktails to look forward to, and the best thing was I was getting the fuck out of DC and heading back to the Keys, so life was good. Then, they let more people on the plane, to include a bunch of House reps from the South, who were going home for the weekend. A somewhat portly black man asked if he could sit next to me – I spotted the US Flag badge of a Congressman on his left suit lapel and said:
“Absolutely sir, please take the seat.”
I was sort of startled and annoyed about sharing the cramped space, so I didn’t really realize who it was at first – John Lewis. I flicked through my memory banks and realized that I had the chance to not make the same mistake that my stepfather had made so many years before., and I had about two hours to talk with a living legend.
“So, Congressman, what was Martin Luther King really like?”
I remain your faithful servant.
Copyright 2020 Point Loma
http://www.vicsocotra.com